The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  She sits very still on the edge of her chair, her eyes fixed on his face, and hopes he will say something else. But without another word, he rises and goes out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  2005

  With Imre Orban’s advice resounding in her head, Annika hurries from the museum. ‘Israel,’ she mutters to herself. ‘Whatever next.’ And yet she can’t get the guide’s words out of her mind, or the quiet conviction with which he uttered them. She recalls that back in Sydney, she read something on the internet about Miklós Nagy going to Israel. As soon as she finds a quiet doorway, she dials Jansci’s number. As she leans against the wall, her heart is racing. ‘I’ve just had a conversation with the bloody Delphic oracle,’ she says when he answers, but before she can explain what she means, he cuts in, and from his tone she realises he is probably escorting a tour.

  ‘Can’t talk now,’ he whispers. ‘Meet me outside Széchenyi Baths in one hour.’ She is about to ask directions, but to her chagrin, he has already rung off.

  She crosses the street to a kiosk. ‘Széchenyi?’ she asks the man, hoping she got the pronunciation right. He nods and starts giving voluble instructions in Hungarian, but she shakes her head and points to a copy of the International Herald Tribune tucked in below the Hungarian newspapers. ‘Ah, English,’ he says. From a shelf behind him he pulls out a map of Budapest and unfolds it, jabbing his index finger at a building in the middle of a large green area behind Hero Square. ‘Széchenyi Baths, very nice. You like,’ he says, and he mimics swimming strokes. ‘City Park here,’ he adds, pointing to the right.

  As she strolls around the park, admiring its bright flowerbeds, neat lawns, the hothouses with exotic plants, and the avenues of oaks, chestnuts and birches, she checks her watch every few minutes. Sitting on a wooden bench facing the rose garden, she breathes in their perfume and thinks about her impulse to share her news with Jansci, her assumption that he would be as intrigued as she was, and her disappointment that he was too busy to talk to her.

  A pretty young woman with a fresh, smiling face and long hair tied back in a ponytail sits on the bench beside her while her plump toddler chases a ball on the lawn. From time to time the ball lands at Annika’s feet and she rolls it towards the delighted child, who rolls it back. Looking at the little girl’s dress, Annika becomes nostalgic. It resembles the ones that Marika used to make for her when she was a child, all pintucks and frills. Marika continued making her dresses that were the envy of all her friends in primary school, but as she got older, she turned her back on dressy clothes in favour of casual pants and comfortable tops like the ones her friends wore.

  Along the sun-dappled paths of the park, mothers wheel prams, cooing to their babies. As Annika watches them, she reflects on the choices that have shaped the course of her life, choices which have precluded having children. The facile self-help articles she used to publish in her magazine fed the insatiable hunger of readers in search of the key to happy, successful lives, not realising that they were churned out by writers who were no happier or more successful than they were, just more articulate.

  The advice was often contradictory. For while some urged women not to feel pressured to have children, others pontificated that the things we regretted the most in life were the things we had failed to do. No-one ever seemed to pick up the contradiction of these two ideas. Neither had she, until now. But when she stopped to think about it, she realised that the things she regretted the most were the choices she had actually made in almost every area of her life: the Communications course she had studied at university that had stifled her creativity, the editorial job that had sapped her enthusiasm, and the lovers who had let her down.

  But maybe she had let them down, too. Many years ago, when she had started work on a Sydney newspaper, she had dated one of the editors. Elliot wasn’t like the other journos. He didn’t grope the cadets, denigrate women, or come back staggering, swearing and leering at the girls after liquid lunches at the pub. He was old-fashioned with manners to match. He opened car doors for her, held her elbow when they were crossing the road, and bought her flowers, but his courtesy made her feel uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t explain. He was the sort of guy that mothers and grandmothers approved of, she had told Cassie.

  Looking back, she realises that he was the only guy who had genuinely cared about her, and she wonders why she had broken up with him. No-one had ever treated her with so much kindness and consideration, before or since. She’d said the chemistry wasn’t right, but Cassie, brutally frank as always, said he was just too nice and too available. ‘You’re only attracted to the ones you can’t have, so you can avoid making a commitment,’ she said. But perhaps deep down she had felt she didn’t deserve such considerate treatment. There was another problem with that relationship, she realises now: Marika, who always found something to criticise about her boyfriends, had approved of Elliott.

  Then it strikes her that the most positive decision she had made in the past few years was to resign from her job. ‘You’ve jumped off without a parachute,’ Cassie said with admiration mixed with awe. It was true. Her mother and grandmother could only see that she had thrown away a high-status job with a good salary without having anything to replace it, but sitting here in City Park in Budapest, she realises that what she had done took strength of character. She had placed principles above prestige and pay packet.

  She waves goodbye to the toddler, and, with a light step, follows a path crowded with people heading for the baths. The grandiose building with its colonnades, arcades and cupolas resembles an opulent palace rather than public baths, and she wonders whether she has come to the right place, then she sees Jansci standing in front of the entrance, surrounded by a group of tourists, mostly women. He looks up, sees her, and makes a gesture of helplessness. She stands a short distance away and hears them firing questions at him, reluctant to let him go. Finally, too impatient to stand back and wait any longer, she comes over to greet him. The tourists look from her to him, thank him, and drift away.

  ‘What happened? Did third world war start? Something must be very important, you are in so big hurry to tell me.’ He is teasing her, and she laughs, pointing at the building in front of them. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘You must come inside, is marvel,’ he says. They pass an enormous outdoor pool surrounded by Roman-style columns, where old men with bathing caps on their heads and huge round bellies protruding above their tiny swimsuits are sitting in the water, giving the pieces on the chess boards their thoughtful attention.

  Swathed in the steam that rises from the baths, they resemble cartoon figures in a misty landscape. Inside, a series of smaller indoor pools are exquisitely decorated with mythical statues, turquoise mosaics and ornamental tiles.

  ‘This looks like a scene from ancient Rome, or some Ottoman seraglio,’ she says, amazed by the exuberant decor.

  Jansci nods. ‘You are right. Romans built first spa baths here, then Turks, this is why you say Ottoman. Budapest is spa city, and Széchenyi is best spa. Has hottest thermal baths. You can have sauna, massage, medicine treatment. Hot springs cure many things,’ he says, looking into her eyes. ‘Maybe also cure women who don’t know where they want to go.’

  ‘Actually, I do know,’ she retorts. ‘I’m going to Israel.’

  He stares at her. ‘Israel? Annika, you are joking. Why?’

  The words that just shot out of her mouth surprise her too, but as soon as she said it, she knows this is exactly what she wants to do. Instead of visiting Prague and Vienna, she will fly to Tel Aviv. They sit down near the trellised wall in the rose garden, and she tells him about her encounter with Imre.

  ‘He told you what is in Israel?

  She shakes her head. ‘That’s the frustrating part, he didn’t. But he was adamant that that’s where I’d find out what I wanted to know.’

  ‘So you will go on a — what do you call it, a crazy duck race — just because old guy
said that? Annika, that is crazy.’

  ‘I suppose it could be a wild goose chase, but I believe him. I remember reading something on the internet about Miklós Nagy going to Israel after the war. I can’t explain it, but there’s something about him that won’t let me rest until I find out the whole story. Besides, I’ve never been to Israel. It should be interesting.’

  ‘I think you want to escape from Budapest,’ he says, and this time she knows he isn’t teasing. ‘Nothing interesting here.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she says, but before she can say any more, he spins her around and holds her so close that she can feel the hard contours of his body pressing against hers. Surprised, she stands very still at first, but wrapped in his strong embrace, she feels her bones softening.

  ‘Annika, we go to my apartment, yes?’ He is looking into her eyes, and his voice is husky with desire.

  She pulls away and shakes her head.

  ‘I think you want, but you don’t think you want,’ he says. ‘Is true, no?’

  ‘Jansci, I’ll be gone in a day or two, and we’ll never see each other again, so what’s the point?’

  ‘Why everything must have point? Why you can’t love and enjoy today without point? Yesterday is gone, tomorrow is not here. We only have today.’

  He is pulling her closer and kissing her neck, and she breathes in the citrus scent of his aftershave as he murmurs, ‘Annika, I want you.’

  She can’t remember the last time she had aroused such desire, the last time her blood was jumping like this. It is tempting to throw common sense to the winds, to surrender to this delicious moment, but she isn’t in love with him, and a warning voice inside her head holds her back from giving in to an impulse that would end in her regret, and his pain.

  ‘I think I’d better go back to the hotel,’ she says.

  He takes her arm. ‘Don’t go yet, Annika. You like music. Come, I will play for you.’

  Half an hour later they reach Király Street behind the Dohány Synagogue. He takes her hand as they enter an old building with a crumbling balcony, and climb the wooden staircase to his apartment on the third floor. It’s an imposing building that she supposes dates from Hapsburg times, but the original spacious apartments with their high ceilings and large windows have been divided into smaller ones like his bachelor flat, a bedsitter with a kitchenette, white walls and white tiles. The only splash of colour is the woven cover over the divan with geometric patterns in royal blue and white, and the only decoration is a framed photograph of two laughing children, one of whom has his smile.

  His violin case rests on the small wooden table beside a pile of books, newspapers and musical scores. While she sits on the divan, he looks through the scores and places one on the stand. Then he takes the violin from its case and tunes it. A few moments later, he begins to play. The melody that fills the room is almost unbearably exquisite, and as she listens, she is enchanted by its honeyed sweetness. Transported to an almost unearthly level of existence, she sits in a dreamlike trance when the music ends, and doesn’t move, not to disturb the magic of that moment.

  Then she says, ‘That’s the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. What was it?’

  ‘“Romance” by Beethoven. I play this for you, Annika, because Beethoven says how I feel inside. Better than words.’

  She nods, too moved to speak.

  ‘But you go from Budapest soon, yes? You are hit and run woman.’ She knows he is attempting to make light of a painful situation but the bruised look around his eyes betrays his emotion.

  He puts his arm around her shoulders and they sit in silence until she turns to look at him. ‘I’ll never forget you, Jansci. I’ll always remember this moment,’ she says softly.

  That evening, back in her hotel room, she replays every note, every word of that interlude. She relives the beauty of the music that says so much more than words ever could, and remembers the tenderness of his gaze. She looks at herself in the mirror for a long time, without flinching or turning away as she usually does, but with a new recognition. She feels reborn inside her skin and smiles at her reflection. Jansci would never know the magnitude of the gift he has given her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  October 1944

  Miklós Nagy is walking towards the Gellert Hotel. He glances behind him, and often ducks into side streets to avoid the Arrow Cross gangs who roam the streets at night, searching for Jews whom they bash, torture and kill. Now that men of military age have been conscripted, any able-bodied man on the streets of Budapest is suspect, and he knows that if stopped and searched, he wouldn’t have time to explain that he was on his way to meet a leading Nazi. The fascist thugs would kill before asking any questions.

  The thick wad of notes in his inside pocket makes him more cautious than ever. So much hinges on this meeting with Kurt Becher that he needs to consider the best way to broach the subject. As he walks, he weighs up options, possibilities and probabilities. Everything depends on the right approach. Except that in this case, it isn’t only his life, it’s the lives of all those still being detained in Bergen-Belsen that hang in the balance. And among them are his lover and his wife.

  *

  Initially, Ilonka resisted his entreaties to join the group on the train. ‘If I leave Budapest and Eichmann finds out I’ve gone, you’ll be in danger,’ she said. There was another reason. She and Miklós had agreed to divorce their spouses as soon as they reached Palestine so that they could get married, but knowing Judit would be on the train, she said she would feel uncomfortable travelling with his wife, especially as people were already gossiping about their affair.

  ‘There will be more than fifteen hundred people on that train, so you probably won’t even see each other,’ he reminded her. ‘And you don’t need to worry about me. Eichmann won’t have me killed as long as we can keep stalling and let him think that the Allies are considering his proposal. I’ve told him that Gábor is making progress. But as we know, Eichmann can change his mind at any minute, especially when he finds out that the negotiations in Istanbul have stalled, so you have to take this opportunity and get out now. There may not be another chance.’ He became so overwrought as he spoke that all the muscles in his neck stood out, and he grasped her shoulders in a vice-like grip.

  Despite her misgivings, in the end she agreed. ‘But I do worry about what will happen to you, and how it’s all going to work out. Sometimes I feel my head is going to split open with all the things I worry about. I wish I knew what was happening to Gábor in Istanbul,’ she said.

  What she didn’t know, and Miklós didn’t tell her, was that Gábor was no longer in Istanbul. He was in Cairo, being interrogated by the British. According to the latest coded messages Miklós had received from Klein, Gábor had left Istanbul for Syria to meet the representative of the Jewish Agency, but even before he stepped off the train in Aleppo, he was arrested by the British, taken to Cairo, detained and interrogated.

  In his cable, Klein reported that the British had made it clear to Gábor that although Churchill sympathised with the plight of the Jews in Hungary, he forbade his ministers from negotiating with the Nazis in any way, no matter what was at stake. Klein reminded Miklós that the British, who had the mandate in Palestine, had made their own deal with the Arabs, and it involved a commitment to prevent Jewish immigration. He mentioned that Gábor’s overheated response was received with distaste by the British, who valued cool understatement more than red-hot emotion, and added that his outburst would only reinforce their belief that Jews were an unstable, overemotional lot. In any case, it seemed to Klein from what he’d overheard in the corridors of power that the British suspected the whole plan was some kind of devious Nazi ploy, perhaps to split the Allies.

  Klein’s presence at these supposedly clandestine meetings puzzled Miklós, but he didn’t spend much time worrying over what he considered a side issue. The depressing news about Gábor made him even more determined to get Ilonka out of Budapest before Eichmann found ou
t that at least one major western power had refused to go along with his scheme. As Eichmann regarded her as his hostage and wouldn’t allow her to leave Budapest, Miklós arranged false papers for her. She would be travelling as the sister of one of the Neolog rabbis on the train. And if Eichmann demanded to see her, he would say that she was ill.

  After raising the money that Eichmann had demanded for the journey, Becher demanded even more, and to cover the shortfall, some Jews from the affluent Budapest district of Lipotvaros had agreed to subsidise the passage of those who couldn’t afford to pay the exorbitant cost of staying alive.

  When Miklós and Ilonka made love on their last night together in Budapest, the intensity of their passion had brought tears to his eyes. He had a presentiment that he would never experience such rapture again, and it crossed his mind that if he died in her arms right now, he would have the best death possible.

  They wept when they parted, she to set out on an uncertain journey, he to an unknown fate in what had become the murder capital of Europe.

  ‘No matter what happens, we mustn’t lose hope,’ she said. ‘This must end soon and then we’ll never have to part again. I can’t wait till we can be together for the rest of our lives.’ He nodded, and cradled her head on his lap, relieved that she couldn’t see the despair in his eyes.

  *

  Miklós is the first to arrive at the Gellert Hotel. He hands his overcoat and hat to the platinum-haired hat-check girl, who is a dead ringer for Jean Harlow, the Hollywood star, and looks around.

  Beneath the crystal chandeliers, waiters in tails and starched shirtfronts scurry around holding aloft platters of chicken Kiev and skewers of grilled pork and csabai sausage. The restaurant resounds with light-hearted conversation, laughter, the clinking of glasses and the lively sound of a three-piece band playing gypsy melodies. It’s as if nothing has changed, as if the occupation had never happened, and he has the surreal feeling that he has stepped through an invisible mirror into a parallel existence in a city where there is no war, no terror, and no sudden death.